


wager all the hazards

by darthjamtart



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/pseuds/darthjamtart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knowing someone is turned on doesn’t mean you know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wager all the hazards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knitmeapony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knitmeapony/gifts).



> Set before the end of season one.

Bo doesn’t get it at first. Sexual energy, sure, she can read that. See it, feel it, the way people look at each other and just _want_. And then there’s Lauren, next to her, and on a scale of one to ten she’s – unreadable. Fluctuating.

Bo wants to kiss her just so she can pull away and watch the reaction. But then she’d have to pull away, and Bo’s never been good at holding back. A decade’s worth of bodies will testify to that.

She leaves Lauren at the bar and saunters to the bathroom, splashes cold water on her face to counter the shots from before, and when she comes back another woman is stepping in close to Lauren, one hand outstretched, fingers brushing against the skin of Lauren’s inner forearm. She’s at an 8 or 9, easy, and why not? Lauren’s smiling back, cool and easy, gorgeous and smart, a doctor, and lord knows Bo’s adoptive parents would have loved that. Well, they’d have preferred a male doctor, but still.

It’s not that Lauren is just bi-curious, either – looking at this new woman, she’s holding steady at 3: acknowledging, but not interested.

“Excuse me,” Bo says, slipping into the tiny bit of space between Lauren and the newcomer. “But you’re interrupting my date.”

The other woman holds up her hands in surrender, turning away, and when Bo looks back at Lauren there’s that flicker again, the unreadable sexual energy. Attraction, and something else.

When they finally end up in bed together, Lauren touches her with devastating certainty. Like she knows already just how to make Bo come apart: the twist of her fingers, inside, as she brushes soft kisses down Bo’s neck. Her hands are the question, and she looks for the answer with her tongue, teasing over Bo’s pulse.

And then it’s over.

And she still can’t read Lauren.

+++

“Dyson.”

Lauren crosses her arms, waits for Dyson to look up at her. She’s treated him, given him physicals (for all his stubbornness, Dyson toes the party line when it comes to his health – for the most part). She knows him well enough to play this out.

Sure enough, he turns slowly in his chair, tilts his chin up to meet her gaze.

“I want a truce,” she says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dyson replies, tone steady. Across the desk, Hale snorts. Lauren grits her teeth against the audience and reminds herself that she picked his territory, his police station, to have this conversation for a reason.

They’re Fae. Well, he is, and she chose her side long ago. There is no neutral ground for them.

“Look,” Lauren says, uncrossing her arms and spreading her hands wide, palms out. “We both want what’s best for Bo. You can help her better if you trust me.”

Dyson looks at her hands, then back at her face. “Bo doesn’t,” he says shortly, but there’s grudging acceptance in his eyes.

“Bo doesn’t always know what’s best for her, does she?” Lauren asks, and the rhetorical question gets her what she wants: Dyson’s hand, outstretched. She shakes, like they’re partners. Dyson’s better than most werewolves at observing social niceties. Which isn’t saying much.

She’s timed it right, and Bo arrives just as Lauren is leaving. She catches the beginning of Bo’s sharp query to Dyson, about what she was doing here, but the door closes on Dyson’s response. It doesn’t matter. She knows where to find them.

+++

Kenzi’s calling the 8-ball when Hale whistles once, short and low, and she straightens abruptly to thwack him with her pool cue. “No cheating!” she declares – third time this evening, and that’s three drinks Hale owes her, according to the new rules.

Hale pouts, the big baby, and jerks his chin, directing her attention across the bar to where Lauren is sauntering toward Dyson and Bo. They’ve just closed a case, and Bo’s on her fourth victory drink, giggling into Dyson’s shoulder.

“Twenty says she goes home with Lauren,” Hale murmurs, slipping in close behind Kenzi. She elbows him and rolls her eyes.

“Wishful thinking, you perv.”

Hale smiles, bright and easy. “So let’s up the stakes.”

+++

“What are you doing here?” Bo asks, aiming for cold and barely making it down to lukewarm. The tequila is a tickle of fire in her gut, and she wishes she didn’t remember what it tastes like on Lauren’s lips. Dyson’s all smoldering heat beside her – a 7 or 8 before she even touches him, and she doesn’t want to think of that, either. Lauren’s question, Lauren’s statistics. Breaking this down to nothing but numbers.

“Too human for you?” Lauren asks, but she’s smiling.

“Not human enough,” Bo snaps, and regrets it when Lauren’s smile falters.

“I’m sorry,” Bo says, and Lauren smiles again, reaching out to tease Bo’s drink from her hand. She curls her tongue against the glass, chasing the last few drops. Her gaze slides left, catching Dyson.

“I think we could all use a fresh round,” Lauren says. “Let me buy?”

Bo looks up to see Dyson’s slow, measuring nod, with only a slight hesitation when Lauren continues, “Or we could open a bottle of wine back at my place.”

“Bo?” Dyson asks, and she straightens her spine.

“Works for me.”

Bo shrugs at Kenzi as they leave, but doesn’t even try to interpret Kenzi’s extravagant gestures and facial gesticulations. They can always figure out what’s going on later.

+++

Lauren takes her time pouring the wine, giving Bo and Dyson time to get settled. Her apartment is decorated mostly in light neutral tones: comfortable sofas and worn-but-polished wood. When she brings the glasses into the living room, Bo is sitting on the loveseat, and Dyson has settled at her feet.

Lauren wonders if it’s intentional.

“I know you’re still angry with me,” Lauren says without preamble. “But I didn’t sleep with you just because the Ash told me to.” Bo’s jaw has a familiar, stubborn set, so she appeals to Dyson: “Would you turn Bo away if the Ash told you to keep sleeping with her?”

Dyson takes a long sip of wine to hide his smile, and Bo’s relenting already, leaning toward Lauren with earnest apology in her eyes.

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” Lauren says, and it’s true. Everything she says is true. Just as there are many truths she doesn’t say.

“Lauren,” Bo starts, miserable with sincerity, and Lauren scoops her wine glass away and captures Bo’s mouth in a kiss.

Dyson, still at their feet, inhales raggedly. Lauren pulls back.

“I’m not trying to replace you,” she says softly, “or even trespass on your territory.” She silences Bo’s protestation of the term with another kiss, this time sliding a hand under Bo’s shirt to press against the soft, fluttering skin of her belly.

“I’d be happy just to watch,” Lauren says, and this time when she pulls away, both Dyson and Bo are watching her with hunger in their eyes.

“Dyson—” Bo starts, but this time Dyson cuts her off.

“I don’t mind.”

He more than doesn’t mind, if Lauren is any judge, and she doesn’t need a meter for sexual attraction to know that Dyson wants this. His fingers are twitching on the carpet by Bo’s ankle, just waiting for permission.

“Go on,” says Lauren. “I want to see how you touch her.”

His hands look huge, sliding up Bo’s legs to unzip her pants and tug them down. Bo raises her hips to help, and then her hands tangle with his, struggling to pull the fabric over her calves and feet. Freed, she twines her fingers in his hair to bring him up for a kiss.

“Dyson, don’t,” Lauren murmurs, and he freezes, poised half over Bo, who turns to glare. “Down, boy,” Lauren says, one hand gentle on his shoulder, and Dyson goes. Lauren waits for the rasp of his beard and his smirking mouth to leave Bo arching her back and gasping, and then she swallows Bo’s shriek as she comes.

Then Lauren steps away, studying Dyson, on his knees in front of Bo, and Bo, fingernails leaving dents in the couch. “Scale of one to ten,” Lauren asks, and Bo can only stare at her, wild-eyed.

“Who?”

“Dyson,” Lauren says patiently. His mouth is glistening, his beard slick, and he is licking his lips, caught between the two of them. Bo looks down, smiling fondly, and then stares hard at Lauren before laughing delightedly.

“Off the chart,” Bo says, and her fingers tighten in Dyson’s hair even as she beckons Lauren closer. “Both of you.”


End file.
